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“Can I make them?”
“Yeah, I'll grab the pan for you.” He steps away to do that and I walk over to his fridge for the eggs.
“Wow, a fully stocked fridge, I'm impressed.” I guess I figured he would eat out more.
Emerson laughs. “Well, I do work at a grocery store. I can grab anything I'm running low on before I come home.” I hear a spraying sound, so I look over my shoulder to see him spraying the pan. “What else do you need?” he asks.
“A bowl, measuring cup, vegetable oil, and either a mixer or a spatula.”
He moves around his kitchen until he's set everything I asked for in front of me. Again, he surprises me that he has a mixer. I start putting everything together and Emerson turns the oven on to preheat.
“Do you like fudge-like brownies or cake-like brownies?” I ask when he comes to rest his hip on the counter next to me.
“Cake-like.” His answer makes me grin. “What?”
“Me too.”
He chuckles. “Am I going to have to fight you over the brownies on the outer edge, too?”
I shake my head and say, “No. We're adults, so we'll divide them equally.”
Emerson leans over to kiss my temple. “You're awesome, you know that?”
“Because I ran into your truck, changed your radio station, fell asleep on our date, have shamelessly looked through your apartment, and now I'm baking brownies?”
He nods. “Yeah, pretty much.”
I laugh and pour the batter into the pan. Emerson sticks it in the oven before walking back over to me. I embarrassingly let out a yelp when he grabs my hips and lifts me, placing me on the counter next to the mess I made. He moves his hand down under my knee before gliding downward as he lifts my leg up. My lungs freeze, unable to breathe at the feel of his hand on my bare skin. He's looking down, but I'm unable to figure out what he's doing because I'm too distracted by his touch.
“Almost completely gone.”
“Huh?”
Emerson lifts his head with a slight grin. “Your stings. They're almost completely gone now.”
“Oh! Right.” I glance down, watching his thumb move back and forth. “Yeah, they are.” He gently moves my leg back down and steps closer between my knees. If he kisses me, how much restraint will I have this time? I'm half hoping I'll have none, and half hoping I'll have a lot. “We should clean up,” I blurt out when he rests his hands on my hips. It's too soon for sex for me. Based on our last kiss, it'll be hard to stop if it gets all hot and heavy so fast again.
“You sit here; I'll clean up.”
When he moves away, my chest deflates. My body and mind need to get on the same page, that's for sure. To distract my out of control hormones, I ask, “Do you wait for them to cool or eat them hot?”
“Wait for them to cool. I'll eat them almost immediately after pulling them out of the oven sometimes, but only with a glass of milk to go with it,” he answers as he starts the dishwater.
“Me too. I hate washing dishes. Whenever I get my own place, it must have a dishwasher.”
He glances over with a sly grin. “Or have a man who doesn't mind around to do it for you.”
“Hm. That's a good idea, too.”
“My mom and grandma had me in the kitchen a lot growing up. I'd help cook and clean up, so it stuck with me as I grew up,” he explains. “I guess you were busy with burping contests instead of being in the kitchen?” I have to give him credit for trying not to laugh, but he fails.
“I can't believe he told you that. Out of everything embarrassing we did growing up, he had to choose burping. You need to pick. Either you can bring up the little accident with our vehicles, or the burping, but not both. And you need to tell me something from your childhood to make us even.”
Emerson quietly washes dishes as he thinks. I watch him wash the bowl, rinse it, and then set it on the drying rack. “All right. I got something, but this is for your ears only, got it?” I nod, eager to hear his story. “I was such a momma's boy when I was little that I cried every day for the first month of kindergarten because I didn't want to leave my mom.” He had been focused on cleaning the utensils, but he braves a look my way. He has this embarrassed, aw shucks, kind of look on his face and it's adorable.
I smile. “That's cute.”
He laughs. “If you say so. I rode the bus and wouldn't start crying until I was on it. Mom didn't even know until the next year when she ran into my bus driver at school because no one had told her. My best friend would hold my hand and she would tell me everything was fine and that we would be back home soon.”
